"It's an Aether Lock," Raeslin said evenly."Whoever's coming has a specialist among them. We don't get out unless we kill the caster."
Rod flashed to the warehouse on Firehammer Street—Buss, the Doomsday cultist, had bragged about using a lock like that. Back then Lauren had simply flared his belt-lamp and shattered it, nearly pulping Buss in the process.
"Why don't we just flood the place with light from the lamps?"
Raeslin gave him a mildly surprised look. "Rod, sometimes you really don't sound like a rookie."He tilted his head. "This space is too big. We can't light it all."
He was calm—no hint of panic at the heavy footsteps closing in.
"Then we fight."
He uncorked a vial, downed it in one go, tipped a measure of blue powder onto his tongue, then emptied a tin of deep-red powder into the lantern at his hip.
The lamp jumped from bright to blazing.
Aeg and Calamon handed him matching powders; Raeslin fed those into his own lamp too. The glare softened, taking on a warm, flame-tinged amber. The heart of the wick glowed like a live coal.
To Rod's spirit-sight, a warm, living fire bloomed—utterly different from the cold, dead feel of the dark—pushing back the chill and the rot.
"Half a quarter-hour, tops," Aeg warned.
Raeslin nodded and laid a palm over the lamp. Rod watched raw aether surge from the man's core along bright channels into the lantern, making the light swell.
"I'm going."
Calamon clapped his hands; a lance of blinding radiance shot into Raeslin, lighting his soul like a star. Raeslin stamped once and blasted off like an arrow. Aeg said, "Rod, you hold this wall. Whatever happens, do not come in," and rode a billow of white mist after him. Calamon unhooked his whip and followed.
Rod was left alone by the wall. The darkness had congealed, sealing every way out—his spirit-eye couldn't pierce it.
The enemy arrived fast.
The moment they swam into view, words floated over their souls:
Raving SinnerType: CursedThreat: MediumTrait: FrenzyHazard: Prolonged staring induces a frenzy-curse.
They looked like scarecrows—stick-limbs, desiccated bodies—only their "heads" were knotted, writhing coils of intestine. A dozen of them.
Then a single giant crow swung into the light:
Malice Black-CrowType: CursedThreat: HighTrait: Aether LockHazard: If you can see it, you can't run.
It was obscene: body the size of a pig, but a head bigger than a wagon, six pairs of crimson eyes glinting above a massive beak, feathers sloughed and rotten.
Rod shoved aside the shiver crawling up his spine and shouted what he saw. Battle drowned out any answer.
Raeslin went full throttle. Steel spines fanned in sheets, locking every scarecrow and the crow to him. His belt-lamp burned like a small sun; sparks of fire licked across their bodies, slowing them. Anything that tried to peel off he body-checked back—spines, sword, shield—herding them into the glow. When they struck back he turned, taking the hits on his back; stick-arms snapped and came away bristling with quills.
He wove through them, blade and buckler flashing. Tumor-heads burst, ichor flew; his pivots were silk-smooth—nothing dangerous ever touched his front.
Only the crow could really hurt him. Its aether hit harder, the beak pierced his rearward warding, and the spines couldn't even punch through its moldy plumage. After one bad trade he stopped dueling it and left Aeg to harry it. White fog bound the bird for a heartbeat or two—just enough. Raeslin was gone, flicking a sting of spines across its face to keep its hate on him.
Calamon's heals sealed the worst gouges as fast as they landed. Hairy, but controlled.
Rod let himself breathe. In the lantern-glow the monsters' aether was fading. Soon the flames wouldn't be so easy to shrug off.
Now the square was full of fire-men chasing Raeslin. Whenever Calamon pulsed him with Aether Resonance, Raeslin palmed the lantern and poured in more power, and the light would billow hotter—slowing, scorching.
Only the crow ignored it. Fire winked out on its body instantly, but Aeg's fog kept tripping it up, sending it crashing about like a blind hound.
Solid plan, Rod thought: clear the scarecrows, then gang the crow. The lamp's area burn was perfect for this pack.
One worry: they were spending heavy to deal with the trash. Would they have enough left for the crow?
Fine. I'll take some pressure off.
He raised the Raven. His mind felt tired—too much aether use—and the charge crept up slower this time; eight seconds to full.
Didn't matter. With the spirit-eye open, every beat of the fight was crisp. He waited for a scarecrow's soul-wave to stutter after a hit and fired. The true-silver round took it clean through the brain-coil; the bone-dust packed in the slug vented a full charge and turned the head to powder.
The body staggered, toppled; black ash lifted in the fire and vanished.
A thread streaked into him. Text flickered:
[Soul of a Raving Sinner]
Huh? Not the usual label.
He shelved the thought. Second shot—another scarecrow popped.
[Small Fragment of a Soul]
So it varies: full soul, small fragment… luck?
Third shot—pop.
[Soul of a Raving Sinner]He grinned. Luck again.
Fourth, fifth—[Small Fragment of a Soul][Large Fragment of a Soul]
He pushed for another charge and felt the drag—mind fuzzy, aether sluggish. Ten seconds and counting.
The scarecrows were failing fast under the lamp; if he waited, he'd miss the kills. He yanked a packet of Redgrain from his coat and downed it. Heat punched his gut and raced through his limbs; his spirit caught fire.
Better.
The gauge spiked. Boom. Sixth target ash.[Soul of a Raving Sinner]
Good. While the Redgrain burned he rapid-fired, finishing the rest: four smalls, one large, one more sinner's soul.
Only the crow remained.
The pressure dropped a notch, but the danger didn't. All three of them were running low.
None of them noticed the lock had already failed. None of them saw the figure hanging upside down from the sewer's crown, watching in silence.
Only Rod did.
With no stone overhead, his spirit-eye reached far. The man clung like a bat, his soul-wave a low, brassy hum—human, not monster. And familiar.
The Warder of Iron Cross District. The one they'd signaled for help.
The man with the half-iron mask.
Rod's gut went tight.
What the hell was he doing there?